Creepypasta Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

Dianna had entered the room that was not to be revisited. The door was wide open when I arrived, such that I could see the better part of three-hundred-and-sixty-degree tableau that had been left us. I scarcely heard the words that came out of Dianna’s mouth where she stood in the middle of the room beside the heap of matted hair that was the dead wolf; her features so mutated with despair as she turned in a slow circle to take in the whole of the bloody fresco, I thought her face would melt off her skull and become part of the hieroglyphics. For myself, the ability to be disturbed seemed strangely limited, and maybe that’s why Dianna’s words, “I think I must have woken at some point; I’ve a

Kicking in the door to startle off any would-be assailant, Walker glanced around the room and frowned. “Nothing..” “Huh?” Roxie slid passed him and looked around, “There’s definitely something...here..Walker..” Walker turned to look at the direction Roxie focused on. The painting of Maddy was still damaged, but not with just what he suspected were claw marks. “What is that?” Roxie asked as red streaks rolled down the canvass from Maddy’s eyes, “Is that..” Walker dipped the tip of his finger in it and sniffed, “Fuck..it’s blood.”

Her scent was one I wanted to get lost in forever. Wait, what? Why am I thinking like this? I need to get laid tonight. I’ll let Casey know I need one of his strippers once everyone is gone. I made my way to the living room to find Abel inspecting a painting Paula was so obsessed with. It was a painting of a woman crying; while one eye produced tears, the other produced blood. What I always found creepy about the piece of art was the fact that the woman was smiling, her eyes were distant, and she appeared mentally ill. I always thought whoever painted her was a lunatic.

Shades of red, brown and black diademed the canvas, yet not getting mixed together, as if they harboured misogyny. The form became more vivid as the lifeless colours brought life in the painting. And then, like a gentle stroke of a fine paintbrush on the canvas, an obnoxiously metallic smell of blood wafted in my nostrils. Blood! The colours swirled and turned into something more vivid. I could see the form clearly now. I scrunched up my nose as the smell of fresh blood became more intense, almost unbearable. I walked to the figure through the blur and hollow, my instinct telling me to stop.

But I just could not help it any longer, being face to face with a wolf had everything flooding into my brain, and I wanted to scream my lungs out. Blood. It was blood that I saw. My parents' blood, spilled on the wooden floor around their heads. I saw their lifeless eyes and still bodies, and wounded faces. I saw my eleven year old self crying and screaming for them to wake up and look at me again, to call me their baby again. But that did not happen, it never happened. And I saw the people that had done that to them, their smug faces and crooked smirks, their hands stained with the blood of my parents, and the set of tattoos on one of their forearms.

she said and grinned at him, even though her insides are shaking a bit. After that, she looks around his office again. The big dark curtains caught her attention. At this time of the day, the sun is at its peak but because of those big curtains hanging on his window, the sunlight barely touches the ground of the insides. She walked towards the window and attempted to part the curtains when a strong grip on her arms stopped her and Sunny found herself pinned on the wall. She can see her own reflection on his dark and scary eyes. It's just like seeing her reflection in the eyes of the murderer. She's scared but she does her best to hide it "Bitch!" He spats on her face. She never heard his voi

The smell, the feel, the woodstove in the corner, instruments of torture mixed with instruments of art. His gaze settled on the walls— professionally soundproofed. That explained why nobody had heard him scream. Unfinished canvases lay against the wall here and there, painted with a mixture of paint and blood, some probably his. He’d imagined himself finding Blackwell’s lair a million times. But it hadn’t been nearly as sick as this. Ashley’s paintings were macabre, but this was something else entirely. This was all the way insane.

It smelt of paint and old blood. Also, I felt this heaviness, this ache in my chest, which I knew was from the atmosphere that filled the room. There was a painting on the wall, and I approached it to see what it was. It was a painting of a faceless girl reaching out to touch a grotesque monster. The candlelight flickered, and I froze. My hands shook. I stepped away from the painting, one step back after the other, breathing heavily. Canvases leaned against the walls. Animals, strange creatures, faceless figures.

And what is happening in there town? They don't understand at all, and why this horrible act is happening in their town? All of them stood there stretching there head in confusion; trying to figure out why people are dying, and who is responsible for this terrible action, from that day forward they called it BLOODY DAY! To me, this is a big mystery that can't never be solved. ( This Story continued) ATTENTION READERS: This book have different series book 2-9

I hear a smirk within the creature's voice while my fighting hands fall away from the gripping beast’s own, allowing my vision to slowly fall into darkness. Wriggling in agony, the creature unexpectedly releases its hold. Opening my unswollen eye as I heave a deep breath, I reluctantly look up to see the creature pulling its blood-soaked claw behind him while raising it past his head, ready to send it thrashing down once more. Anticipating the savage blow, I close my eyes, wincing expectedly, defenceless and ready to take the next hit. Preparing to accept my fate. A swooshing burst of movement rushes past my ears, leaving me in a state of confusion when no apparent pain seems to follow. Than